Self-indulgent ruminations from someone just as abashed, appalled, intrigued and inspired as you about my life.
If I were a rich, white woman, this would be my eat, pray, love moment...

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

The Baby Snickers Shower

I found myself at Babies "R" Us the other week to invest in a gay baby shower gift. Between the aisles for ass cream and canned, powdered versions of breast milk, a maternal instinct raged. This was my Charlotte York MacDougal Goldenblatt moment.

My biological clock began to tick loudly at age eight. During this time, when I wasn't playing with my Kid Sister doll or teaching my mother's preschoolers how to sashay properly with a bottle, I also aided my mama in her girlfriend festivities. Many of our female relatives deigned to either get married or pregnant during this pivotal phase of my life. Both sides of my family house some very unfortunate people, and I was damned if I knew why someone would want to marry into it. While marriage-done-well eluded me, I fully comprehended the idea of sex and babies. I was advanced at eight years old. The only missing piece of the baby puzzle was the “miscarriage.” How a mother could lose her stroller baffled me. Those baby vehicles were massive, especially the ones that supported Siamese twins. I reconciled that it must be best for this act of miscarrying to occur to women that did not have leashes for their strollers or at least a primitive GPS system. I digress. In all, I mastered an adept aptitude for baby showers, rolling pigs-in-a-blanket for the tablescape or arranging pink and blue balloons around the shower participants based on how obese they were. The larger ladies received more balloons, as proportion and scale for any function's decor determine its success. Baby shower bliss consumed me, and I vowed to procreate in the coming months.

The infatuation with infants dwindled as I eased into puberty at age nine and three-quarters. My testosterone levels always surge high. Obviously. I survived a particularly dark maturation into adulthood, and I could never quite find the locus for starting to really dislike infants. I often referred to babies as bitches. "Bitch" was my word of the day for an entire semester. I refused to be around them unless absolutely necessary, devoting most of my schedule to my own pursuits: gay porn, tanning and legos. The original GTL. My neighborhood girlfriends and I (along with a few boys I managed to confuse), in order to become successful adults, beefed up our reading, moving from The Berenstain Bears to the men's underwear section of the Macy's catalog. We realized, too, that tan fat looks better than pale fat, so we'd lounge street-side and bake in the sun with the sounds of the distant ice cream truck providing a soulful soundtrack. From a creative perspective, we discerned that conversing about architecture would take us far in many social circles. Legos served as our building blocks of culture and grasp of structural engineering. With our careers and social lives first, babies were the last things on our minds.

I upheld this no-infant ideology for nearly fifteen years. However, in my early twenties, the vision of being a kept woman with 2.4 children suddenly sprouted back to life. I remember many times of solo ejaculation where I’d lament that the lost semen would never see their future siblings. I am in my late twenties now, which induces a vomit feeling in my stomach not unlike the sight of Sarah Palin. But my biological clock switched back to the on button.

A friend of mine, along with his partner, adopted a baby shortly after Christmas, thus the requisite trip to Babies "R" Us. The shower occurred in a fabulous Park Avenue apartment, a home that was equal parts art gallery and gay spa. Mimosas and Aquanet flowed freely. There was a baby there as well. Little Asher Lucas, the infant, epitomized the perfect child, silent and adorable in his stroller, and I mustered all of my strength to stay secluded in one corner and be catty and jealous with a few friends. We also drank copious champagne amounts to take the edge off and keep me from stealing the baby. He was so cute.

Now, I am scouring New York's tanning salons and Whores "R" Us clothing stores for Really-Desperate-Housewives-of-Jersey to toss my goodies at. With my hair, predisposed levels of melanin and phallic-love, it's only fitting for my progeny to have hair, self-tanner and the ability to deep-throat a pickle like Snooki.